The Grace Kelly Dress Page 12

  “I know how important these memories are to you, especially the ones that connect you to your father.”

  Rocky regarded her mother. These memories were important to her. Was her mother trying to manipulate her? Rocky imagined asking this question to her therapist. Then, she sat in his seat and offered herself an answer: How can she be manipulating you when she has no idea that you don’t want to wear the dress?

  Rocky didn’t know what to say. She decided to stick with what she did know: “I’m sad that Dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle. That’s why I don’t want a traditional ceremony like you’re imagining. Who will walk me down the aisle?”

  “Oh, honey,” her mother said, enveloping her in a warm hug. “I had no idea you felt that way. I just thought you wanted to be nontraditional. But you know that I’ll be there to proudly walk you down the aisle, right?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No,” Joan said solemnly. “It is not.”

  “I’ll forever be the girl with no dad.”

  “I know,” Joan said, dabbing at her eyes. “I’ll forever be the girl with no sister.”

  Rocky buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. She felt the tears brewing, tears she didn’t even know she had, and she did not want to be the crying bride in the Upper East Side wedding cake bakery. She would not.

  “Yes, I know it’s emotional,” the pastry chef said as she walked out, her arms draped in small plates filled with cake. “I cried at every appointment I went to when I got married.”

  Rocky immediately wanted to punch this woman in the face.

  “Could you give us a moment?” Joan asked in a tone that was both sweet and no-nonsense.

  “Of course,” the pastry chef said, as she quickly arranged the little flags on each cake and then ran off. The tiny flags signaled which cakes were which: red velvet, vanilla, chocolate, coconut...the list was endless.

  “Sweetheart, this is why I wanted you to wear my wedding dress,” Joan said. “He would be so pleased to see you wearing it.”

  Rocky didn’t know what to say. Would her father have been pleased to see her wearing the dress? Would she feel her father’s presence with her on her wedding day?

  “I just want everything to be as perfect for your wedding as it was for mine,” Joan said. “This is such a special time in your life.”

  Joan reached for her wedding album, and they paged through it as they took tastes of each cake. (Rocky was shocked to discover that her favorite flavor was vanilla. Plain, old, boring vanilla. Joan, on the other hand, preferred the coconut with basil sweet cream.)

  They ate cake, and they looked at pictures. And they laughed. A lot. They laughed over the bridesmaids’ dresses, they laughed over the baby-blue tuxedo one distant cousin chose to wear, they laughed over the absurdity of it all—the massive planning for one night that was over in the blink of an eye. Rocky felt closer to her mother than she had in years. It was just the two of them, enjoying each other’s company, bonding over sugar and laughter and bad fashion choices.

  “I have Daddy’s wedding tuxedo preserved, you know,” Joan said after the appointment was over, as they walked around the corner to get espressos. “Perhaps we should take a piece of that and incorporate it into the dress.”

  “I don’t want to ruin your dress.”

  “It’s your dress now,” Joan said, looking deeply into Rocky’s eyes. “It belongs to you.”

  “But what about Amanda?” At that moment, Rocky realized that her mother hadn’t brought up Amanda today. Not even once.

  “What about Amanda?” her mother asked, shrugging her shoulders. “The dress is yours. If she ever decides to get married, you can decide if you will hand the dress down to her, but that will be your choice.”

  “But I—”

  “The dress belongs to you.”

  Rocky wished she wanted it.

  Twenty-Nine

  The mother of the bride, as a bride herself

  Long Island, 1982

  “How was the party?” her mother asked as Joanie walked into the house the next morning, and Joanie didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Not about Mel, not about the band, not even about the borrowed dress that now smelled like smoke, desperate for a dry cleaning. She didn’t say a word about any of it.

  She couldn’t.

  After Michele died, Joanie had to be enough for her mother. She had to be enough for two. For the daughter she was, for the daughter that Birdie lost. She had to be the good girl, the girl who didn’t cause trouble. Most of the time, Joanie didn’t even think about it, but then there were other times, times like these, when the weight threatened to crush her.

  “It was great,” Joanie lied. She gave her mother a smile and Birdie regarded her. From the furrow of her brow, Joanie could tell that her mother wasn’t convinced. She set a plate of crepes down in front of her daughter and then got the strawberry preserves from the refrigerator.

  “Was it?” she quietly asked, going back to the dishes in the sink. Joanie’s mother had used this same trick since she was six years old. She’d pretend she wasn’t interested, or that she was preoccupied with something else, and it usually worked like a charm—Joanie would spill her guts. But the difference now was that Joanie didn’t want to spill her guts. The trick used to work because she secretly wanted to tell her mother everything, she just didn’t know how to find the words. But now, overnight, things had changed. Her relationship with her mother was different. What was Birdie hiding? What wouldn’t Mel tell her about Michele?

  “It was a great night,” Joanie repeated. She picked up the jar of strawberry preserves, distractedly spooning generous amounts on top of her crepes. She watched as the gooey mess oozed all over her crepes, filling her plate, threatening to spill over onto the table.

  “Well, then, I’m glad,” her mother said. She finished up with the dishes and wiped her hands dry on a dish towel. “So, have you given any thought to the wedding dress?”

  “I can’t wait to wear it,” Joanie said, her face brightening at the thought. Of all of the confusion she’d experienced over the past few weeks, there was one thing she had no questions about: her mother’s wedding dress.

  “Well, in that case, we should go about getting it fitted,” her mother said. “And we can add a few little flourishes here and there to make it your own.”

  “I did have a few ideas,” Joanie said, taking an enormous forkful of crepes and strawberry preserves. With her mouth full: “Just to make the dress a little more my style.”

  Her mother smiled widely back at her. “The dress is utter perfection. It’s everyone’s style.”

  “Be that as it may,” Joanie said, with a little laughter in her voice, taking a sip of milk to wash down the crepes she was devouring, “I also loved Princess Diana’s wedding gown. I know that you were inspired by Princess Grace, but surely there’s a little room for Diana?”

  “Of course,” her mother said, but Joanie could tell her smile was forced. “What, exactly, did you have in mind? Are you thinking a longer veil? Princess Diana’s long veil and long train were legendary.”

  “Not the veil—” Joanie began, but her mother wasn’t done speaking.

  “Most people don’t know this, but Diana’s veil was actually longer than her train. Did you know that?”

  “Really?” Joanie asked. She had not noticed that. She tried to recall the many newspaper cutouts that she kept in a box underneath her bed, but the veil did not come to mind.

  “I think we can add another layer to my veil and make yours the length of Diana’s—it was 153 yards, longer than the dress’s 25-foot train—quite easily. That would really enhance the dress.”

  “I was thinking that I might want to change the sleeves,” Joanie said. “I loved how Diana’s dress had those wonderful fairy-tale sleeves.”

  “The sleeves,” her
mother repeated. “I see.”

  “Oh, have I upset you?” Joanie quickly asked. “We don’t have to change anything. The dress is perfect the way it is.”

  “You haven’t upset me,” Birdie said, carefully. “I was just surprised. After all, this dress is a piece of art, a piece of our heritage.”

  “So, you don’t want me to change it,” Joanie said, under her breath, as if realizing it for the very first time.

  “I want you to make the dress yours.” Birdie rubbed her forehead. “You can change it, if that’s what you want.”

  Joanie could tell what her mother was really saying—Don’t change the dress, please. So, Joanie would do what her mother wanted. She would not upset her mother.

  After all, she had to be enough. And the dress belonged to her mother, anyway. Who was she to make a change to something that wasn’t truly hers?

  Thirty

  The seamstress

  Paris, 1958

  He was the same person as before. That was what she had to keep reminding herself. Nothing had changed. If anything, she felt even closer to Julien. Sharing confidences, Rose now knew that there was nothing that could break their friendship apart. Still, she couldn’t help staring at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. How hadn’t she known? How could it be that she hadn’t suspected a thing? Not that there was anything to suspect. There was nothing wrong with him.

  Diana walked into the atelier, fifteen minutes early for her appointment, and immediately, the air shifted. It was as if Rose could feel the presence of Robert in the atelier before she even saw him. She could feel his essence as he entered the building.

  “Rose,” Diana said, as she walked over to her friend without even taking her coat off.

  “It’s lovely to see you.” Out of the corner of her eye, Rose could see Robert removing his overcoat and placing it on the coatrack. He made his way towards the two women and took his sister’s coat. Rose was careful to keep her eyes firmly on Diana. She would not meet his eye. She could not.

  “Nice to see you, Rose,” Robert said. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, her voice so small she wasn’t even sure she’d said the words aloud. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her. But she didn’t dare look at him. If she did, she was sure he would know how she felt about him. And he mustn’t know. The work was what was important. A paycheck. Not some silly crush.

  Diana looked to her brother and then at Rose. She seemed to be waiting for her brother to speak again, and when he didn’t, she grabbed Rose by the hand and asked her where the muslin was. “I simply cannot wait to try it on.”

  “It’s in the dressing room,” Rose explained, regaining her composure. “We very well couldn’t have you take off all of your clothing in the middle of the atelier, could we?”

  “Of course we could,” Diana said, with a devilish look in her eye. Rose gasped at her impudence. “I can’t wait to see it. I would gladly take off all my clothes if that meant I didn’t have to wait a moment longer.”

  “Well, you don’t have to wait,” Rose said, directing Diana to the dressing room. “We have everything set up and ready for you.”

  Rose walked Diana down the hall. She opened the door, and waited. She hoped that when Diana saw the muslin, the design of the dress, she would instantly fall in love.

  “It’s beautiful,” Diana said, quietly. Reverently. She carefully removed her scarf, and folded it four times, until it was small enough to fit into her purse.

  Rose turned towards the door to give Diana privacy while she undressed. “Let’s start with the skirt,” she said.

  “The skirt?”

  “Well, yes,” Rose said. “Grace Kelly’s wedding dress was made up of four separate components, so I’ll construct yours in a similar fashion. And for the final dress, it will all be seamless, just like Princess Grace’s was.”

  Rose looked to Diana for her reaction. She wanted Diana to be as excited about the dress as she was.

  “You don’t have to explain, Rose,” Diana said, smiling warmly. “I was just curious, was all.”

  Rose felt a swell of relief come over her body. She had been nervous. Of course she was. Every time she met with Diana, she was scared that the ruse would be discovered. That she and Julien would be outed as frauds, and that all of their work would have been for nothing.

  “I thought that maybe you were interested in dress design,” Rose said, trying to keep her voice level. She had told Julien that she could handle the dress fitting without reservations, but perhaps she had underestimated how much she needed him. How much his gentle nods of affirmation had given her the courage to go on.

  “I am very interested in how things are made, yes,” Diana said as Rose helped her into the bodice. Diana tried to catch Rose’s eye, but she had already busied herself with the cummerbund. “I’m interested in what’s going on under the surface.”

  But Rose wasn’t paying attention to what Diana was saying anymore. She put the cummerbund onto Diana’s waist, and realized there was a problem. The entire fit of the garment was off. It swam on Diana’s lithe frame, which made it pucker all over.

  Diana didn’t notice. She began twirling in front of the mirror. “I love it!” she said, as she swayed her hips to and fro.

  How had Rose made such an error? She prided herself on her attention to detail. She had been so careful with her measurements. What could have possibly gone wrong? And in an instant, she knew. As she’d constructed each separate piece of the garment, she’d been using herself as a fit model. She and Diana had the same proportions, only Diana was much smaller. She had planned to take the entire garment in before this appointment. How could she have forgotten?

  She had initially tried on the bodice only to make sure it sat properly on her bustline, but she found it hard to take off. She adored admiring her reflection in the mirror as she wore it. Naturally, when it came time to create the skirt, she just knew that she had to try that on, too. She held off on tailoring the bodice until the skirt was done. And then once the skirt was done—oh, how she had twirled around in front of the mirror in it then, just as Diana was doing now—it didn’t make sense to tailor the pieces until the cummerbund was done. So, she waited. And waited. And then it slipped her mind until this very moment. She had been too prideful, which her aunt had always said was a sin. But there was no use denying it—Rose simply loved the dress.

  Diana could hear Madame’s voice in her head: Oh, what have you done, dear child? How could you have made such an error? You’re going to ruin everything.

  Luckily, Diana was none the wiser. “May I show it to my brother? I’m simply bursting with excitement.”

  “Of course,” Rose said, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “Let me put a few pins in it for you first.”

  Rose grabbed Madame’s pin cushion and worked quickly. She pinned the entire garment while Diana admired her reflection in the mirror.

  “Even better,” Diana said, and Rose couldn’t help but agree. Diana was a vision, truly.

  She walked towards the door, and Rose carefully gathered the excess fabric of the dress so that it wouldn’t drag along the atelier floor as she walked.

  “You look like a dream, dear sister,” Robert said, as Diana situated herself in front of the dressing room mirror.

  “It’s utter perfection, isn’t it?” Diana said, her hands gliding along the fabric dreamily.

  “It is said that to wear a custom-designed Madame Michel wedding dress is to guarantee a happy marriage,” Robert told his sister.

  “Is that what they say?” Diana asked, lost in her own reflection in the mirror. “What about a dress by Rose?”

  “This is a dress by Madame Michel,” Rose quickly said. If she’d taken a moment to think, she might have said something more graceful, less awkward. But Diana didn’t seem to notice.

  “I
simply meant that I feel lucky that you are working on my wedding gown as well.” Diana smiled at Rose.

  “You are so incredibly talented,” Robert said to Rose. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Rose wouldn’t remember the rest of the appointment. She wouldn’t recall Diana changing back into her own clothing, or saying goodbye to Diana and Robert. As she dressed for bed that evening, only one thought would remain: how Robert called her talented. How he’d never seen anything like the dress she’d designed.

  Rose would go to bed that evening with his name on her lips.

  Thirty-One

  The bride

  Brooklyn, 2020

  “Send me a picture of you wearing the dress,” she said, and Rocky froze. The dress. The wedding dress that Rocky didn’t want to wear. She hadn’t been back to the bridal salon to try it on, and she certainly didn’t have a picture of herself wearing it. “Are you still there?” her grandmother asked, and the FaceTime screen shook as her grandmother rattled her phone, trying to get a better connection. When it settled back down, the camera was pointed at her grandmother’s forehead.

  “I’m here, Grand-mère. Tilt your phone so that I can see your face. There’s a tiny window at the bottom where you can see yourself,” Rocky said, holding her own phone steady.

  “How’s that?” Her grandmother righted the screen, and her beautiful face came into view. After all these years, her grandmother’s voice still had a slight French lilt to it, which Rocky adored. (And at one point, from ages fifteen to sixteen, unsuccessfully tried to emulate.) The accent was always more pronounced when Grand-mère was spending time in Europe. And her grandmother was there for an extended trip, while she tended to Rocky’s uncle after his hip replacement surgery.

  “Perfect. How’s Paris?”

  “How is the dress?” her grandmother asked, fingering her sixteen-inch double strand of pearls, her signature piece that Amanda had already laid claim to. Rocky couldn’t tell if her grandmother was purposely avoiding the question, or if her grandmother simply hadn’t heard her inquire about her favorite city in the world. Grand-mère had been born and raised in Paris, and Rocky knew how much her annual trips back home meant to her.